Read Online Girl at the Lion D'Or by Sebastian Faulks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sebastian Faulks
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do.’
Mme Hartmann took up a wicker basket and returned to her gardening, leaving Anne to make her own choice of where to start work. After she had swept the scullery and scrubbed the steps, she moved into a small room which turned out to be Hartmann’s study. The floor was piled with books, and next to a desk was an open trunk of half-sorted documents. She allowed her eyes to linger on some papers on the desk. Some of the writing was angular and strong, some seemed rounder and less formed, but she recognised at once that they were different ages of the same hand.
She heard the back door slam and the sound of boots on the scullery floor. Instinctively, she made as if to be tidying a bookshelf. Hartmann had taken off his jacket, which he carried over his shoulder. For a moment he stood in the doorway, as if surprised by her presence.
She set about dusting, but found herself chattering nervously. ‘Madame made me promise not to touch any of the papers. I’ve been very careful.’
‘That’s all right.’ He picked up a book and sat down. She was working only a few feet from where he sat and for some minutes there was silence which Anne didn’t feel it was her prerogative to break. However, when he put down his book, sighed, and stared out of the window she took the chance to ask him what all the papers signified. From there it was quite easy to move on to the subjects of his work. She thought he might tell her to be quiet and get on with her cleaning, but he sat back in the chair and told her about being a lawyer in Paris. It seemed he had had to advise various newspapers on what the laws permitted them to print. ‘I don’t have a very high opinion of our press at the moment,’ he said.
He told her about the scandal involving a financier called Stavisky. Anne remembered reading about it, but couldn’t recall why so many important people had been worried when the man killed himself.
‘The government was very weak,’ said Hartmann. ‘It was frightened of what he might have revealed. That’s why some people say the police were involved in his death.’
Although Anne had been living in Paris at the time, the events had seemed remote to a waitress in a small café. ‘My boss, at the place where I used to work in Paris, he said we should have Marshal Pétain back.’
‘Did he? Isn’t Pétain a bit old?’
‘But he’s a hero, isn’t he? The people like him. Wouldn’t he be better than all these men we have now?’
Anne, who cared very little about politics was relieved when Hartmann didn’t laugh at her, but merely said, ‘You may be right.’
Although he was gentle when he talked to her, Anne was tense all the time with the fear that she would say something ignorant or foolish that would make him laugh. Against this fear she had to weigh the desire to know more about him.
‘Do you miss Paris?’ she said at last.
‘A little.’ Hartmann sighed again and stretched out his arms. ‘My father was a traveller who lived all his life in cities. As soon as I was old enough I went abroad, and then to Paris.’
‘Is that where your father came from?’
‘Yes, but his parents were from Vienna. His father was a banker. I went to stay with them once as a child and the thing I remember most vividly is the amount they ate. Every day they used to have at mid-morning what they called “second breakfast”, which my grandmother insisted everyone attend. There were plates of different meats – venison and cold pheasant, and eggs and dishes of sweetbreads with port and madeira. And they were expecting lunch two hours later. But the funny thing was that none of them seemed fat.’
‘But your father, he didn’t stay there?’
‘No, he was a great disappointment to my grandfather because he wasn’t religious. My grandfather was Jewish, you see, but my father was an atheist and rather proud of it.’
‘What about your mother?’
‘She was a good Catholic. She came from the Jura. They met at someone’s
Mme Hartmann took up a wicker basket and returned to her gardening, leaving Anne to make her own choice of where to start work. After she had swept the scullery and scrubbed the steps, she moved into a small room which turned out to be Hartmann’s study. The floor was piled with books, and next to a desk was an open trunk of half-sorted documents. She allowed her eyes to linger on some papers on the desk. Some of the writing was angular and strong, some seemed rounder and less formed, but she recognised at once that they were different ages of the same hand.
She heard the back door slam and the sound of boots on the scullery floor. Instinctively, she made as if to be tidying a bookshelf. Hartmann had taken off his jacket, which he carried over his shoulder. For a moment he stood in the doorway, as if surprised by her presence.
She set about dusting, but found herself chattering nervously. ‘Madame made me promise not to touch any of the papers. I’ve been very careful.’
‘That’s all right.’ He picked up a book and sat down. She was working only a few feet from where he sat and for some minutes there was silence which Anne didn’t feel it was her prerogative to break. However, when he put down his book, sighed, and stared out of the window she took the chance to ask him what all the papers signified. From there it was quite easy to move on to the subjects of his work. She thought he might tell her to be quiet and get on with her cleaning, but he sat back in the chair and told her about being a lawyer in Paris. It seemed he had had to advise various newspapers on what the laws permitted them to print. ‘I don’t have a very high opinion of our press at the moment,’ he said.
He told her about the scandal involving a financier called Stavisky. Anne remembered reading about it, but couldn’t recall why so many important people had been worried when the man killed himself.
‘The government was very weak,’ said Hartmann. ‘It was frightened of what he might have revealed. That’s why some people say the police were involved in his death.’
Although Anne had been living in Paris at the time, the events had seemed remote to a waitress in a small café. ‘My boss, at the place where I used to work in Paris, he said we should have Marshal Pétain back.’
‘Did he? Isn’t Pétain a bit old?’
‘But he’s a hero, isn’t he? The people like him. Wouldn’t he be better than all these men we have now?’
Anne, who cared very little about politics was relieved when Hartmann didn’t laugh at her, but merely said, ‘You may be right.’
Although he was gentle when he talked to her, Anne was tense all the time with the fear that she would say something ignorant or foolish that would make him laugh. Against this fear she had to weigh the desire to know more about him.
‘Do you miss Paris?’ she said at last.
‘A little.’ Hartmann sighed again and stretched out his arms. ‘My father was a traveller who lived all his life in cities. As soon as I was old enough I went abroad, and then to Paris.’
‘Is that where your father came from?’
‘Yes, but his parents were from Vienna. His father was a banker. I went to stay with them once as a child and the thing I remember most vividly is the amount they ate. Every day they used to have at mid-morning what they called “second breakfast”, which my grandmother insisted everyone attend. There were plates of different meats – venison and cold pheasant, and eggs and dishes of sweetbreads with port and madeira. And they were expecting lunch two hours later. But the funny thing was that none of them seemed fat.’
‘But your father, he didn’t stay there?’
‘No, he was a great disappointment to my grandfather because he wasn’t religious. My grandfather was Jewish, you see, but my father was an atheist and rather proud of it.’
‘What about your mother?’
‘She was a good Catholic. She came from the Jura. They met at someone’s